


Sonata in G Minor

by ChuckleVoodoos



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Music, Musical Instruments, almost canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 05:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4292526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChuckleVoodoos/pseuds/ChuckleVoodoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music calms Matt down, as long as it's the right kind. Foggy's good at the right kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sonata in G Minor

Foggy finds out that his best friend is a hero on the same day that he finds out that his best friend is a devil.

 

No, that’s not quite right. Matt _is_ a hero—he just _thinks_ he’s a devil. He’s not. No devil would leave in the middle of an exam despite the teacher’s warnings to sit back down _now,_ Mr. Murdock. No devil would _fail_ an exam to run across campus and stop a man from beating his girlfriend to death. No devil would call the campus police and hold the girl’s hand until her parents came to pick her up.

 

A devil might break the man’s arms and toss him out of the window, yes, but only a very good devil.

 

Foggy runs out of the classroom a second after Matt does. He’s got a good enough grade that he won’t fail the class even if he bombs the exam—which the same cranky teacher assured him that he will. It’s worth it. Matt had looked absolutely terrified, and also _furious._ Foggy’s never seen him like that, but he already knows it means trouble.

 

Matt’s fast, faster than Foggy had thought he would be. It’s hard to follow him, and Foggy’s more than a few feet behind, but he keeps Matt in sight the whole time and follows anyway.

 

So Matt’s fast, and he’s also not using his cane. He can _run_. He can see where he’s going. Foggy pushes down his rising shock and just keeps following. Later, he’ll ask later.

 

It’s over by the time Foggy gets there. Matt’s sitting next to the girl and holding her hand, the window is open, and the boyfriend’s nowhere in sight. A second later Foggy hears him moaning in pain outside. Right. Matt can do a lot more than run, apparently.

 

Foggy sits on the floor in front of the girl, low to the ground to seem less threatening, and tells as many awful jokes as he can think of in his softest voice. She actually manages to crack a small, teary smile before her parents arrive and hurry her out of the room and out of the school.

 

The campus police have questions. Lots of questions. They want to know how they knew the girl, how they knew the man, how they knew someone was in trouble, how they managed to throw a 200-lb man out of a two-story window after breaking both of his arms. Matt seems shaken, stonily silent, so Foggy talks instead.

 

Foggy’s a fast talker. It’s not hard. He and Matt had known her from class, studied in her room with her once or twice. They’d noticed she had bruises. She’d mentioned seeing her boyfriend today, and they’d been worried. It was just luck that they showed up when they did. The man tripped and fell on his arms, clumsy dear, and then he’d fallen out the window. All by himself. What a pity.

 

Matt did _not_ run across campus alone, are you crazy? Do you not see that he’s blind? He can’t run anywhere without someone leading him. God, how can you be so insensitive? I should report you.

 

Eventually the flustered police let them go, after Foggy graciously agrees not to report them.

 

“You’re lucky no one had a camera. We couldn’t have bluffed our way out of that otherwise.” Foggy tells Matt quietly, and Matt swallows.

 

“Not lucky.” He says, voice choked. “I knew they didn’t, and I took the path with the least people.” Foggy considers this for a moment. Matt can run. Matt can see where he’s going. Matt knows when people around him have cameras and where those people are, when even Foggy has no clue.

 

“Okay.” He offers simply, reaching up to squeeze Matt’s hand where it rests on his elbow. Foggy’s leading him again, even though apparently he doesn’t have to. Apparently Matt’s even more aware of his surroundings than Foggy is, and he’s a faster runner. “Tell me when we get back to the room. We can have snacks.”

 

Matt nods, still seeming shaky.

 

“Are you scared of me?” He whispers, and Foggy blinks.

 

“Why would I be scared of you?” He wonders, incredulous. Matt swallows, face turned away from Foggy.

 

“I hurt him.” He explains slowly. It’s hard to place his tone—Foggy’s not sure what Matt’s feeling right now. He still seems out of it, dazed. “You don’t like it when people get hurt.”

 

“He was hurting that girl.” Foggy points out, confused. “You had to hurt him to make him stop.” Matt licks his lips and shakes his head.

 

“He stopped after the first arm.” He admits softly. “He was crying and begging me to stop. Then I broke the other arm, and then I tossed him out the window.” He gives a tight, mirthless smile that flickers out a moment later. “And I liked it.”

 

Foggy doesn’t let himself tense or stop walking. That’s a lot, and pretty clearly excessive force. That’s not self-defense, or defense of someone else. That’s punishment, that’s making someone hurt because you think they deserve it.

 

Matt’s voice is flat, hollow. It’s like he’s reciting a fact from one of their legal texts, no emotion attached. He sounds numb, and when Foggy turns to look at him his face is completely blank. Pale, though. Sick.

 

“He can’t hurt anyone else while his arms are broken.” Foggy points out, making sure his voice is thoughtful and almost absent, not letting a hint of alarm slip into it. He’ll deal with that part later. “Good idea.”

 

Matt does tense at this, but only for a moment. Then he relaxes abruptly, every bit of tension leaving his body and closing his eyes, taking a shaky breath.

 

“Okay.” He murmurs, nodding slowly. He gives Foggy a small, weak smile. “Okay.”

 

Foggy nods and leads Matt the rest of the way to their room. Even though he doesn’t have to.

 

Matt must be used to keeping it as a secret, because when he finally gives in and starts talking, he spends the whole time freezing every time Foggy breathes and looking terrified.

 

The thing that keeps coming up, again and again, is the Devil. It’s a strange dichotomy, because Matt keeps saying it like it’s a bad thing, but there’s also a note of satisfaction in his voice. He talks about wanting to fight, and he’s guilty and proud at the same time. It’s like he _likes_ to fight, but he doesn’t _like_ liking it.

 

Matt, Foggy learns, is _very_ good at fighting. It seems to be maybe 85% Matt just being perfect, and 15% superpowers.

 

Because Matt has superpowers. Apparently.

 

So Matt couldn’t see where he was going. Matt could hear where he was going, and feel where he was going, and smell where he was going, and taste where he was going. He could _sense_ where he was going. Actually, pretty much the only thing that Matt _couldn’t_ do is see where he was going.

 

Matt’s probably expecting a million different questions, maybe a few accusations about ‘why didn’t you tell me, why did you lie, why should I trust you’. Foggy lives to surprise.

 

“Dude, I’ve been playing heavy metal every day. That must have been killing your ears. Why didn’t you _say_ something?” Foggy groans, guilty. “I could have been playing, I don’t know, Beethoven or something. Brahms. Mozart. Those other dead guys who write cool jams.” Matt smiles at him tentatively.

 

He waits another moment like he’s waiting for Foggy to add something accusatory and skeptical. Foggy just beams patiently at him.

 

It’s not that weird. He already knew Matt was extraordinary. This is just one more thing that makes him so amazing. And sure, it’s a little weird to think that Matt knew about every single time Foggy was having some fun with his right hand in the shower—god, he could _hear_ it, every moan and gasp—but Matt’s a cool guy. He won’t say anything weird about it.

 

Thank _god_ Foggy made sure not to say Matt’s name while he was having some fun with his right hand in the shower. Thank _god._

 

“Your music is fine.” Matt assures Foggy. “You play it quietly.” Foggy snorts.

 

“It’s _heavy metal,_ Matt. It’s never quiet.” He claps his hand together decisively. “No way. I’m going to go pirate a million soothing songs for you. It’ll be like a party for your ears. Melodious as hell.” He considers. “Classical, lullabies, anything soft and sweet.”

 

“That would be nice.” Matt admits, smile a little surer. Foggy nods, already heading towards his computer, before a brilliant thought hits him. He turns slowly back around to face Matt and frowns thoughtfully.

 

“Piano or violin?” He asks slowly. Matt tilts his head curiously, looking confused. “You’d like piano or violin. One of them, at least. You just seem like a piano or violin person.” It’s hard to explain how someone could figure that out, but it’s true. Foggy just knows it, some sort of instinct.

 

Matt is quiet for a moment.

 

“Violin.” He admits hesitantly. “Although piano’s nice too. Anything is, as long as it’s played well, but violin is my favorite.” Foggy nods sagely.

 

“Smart man. Lots of fun songs, catchy yet classy. All the cool people play the violin.” He grins. “You can help me make a wicked awesome playlist. All the best stuff.” He considers. “You’re not going to turn me in for illegal downloads, are you? Don’t be a square, Matt. Law-breaking is cool. Be cool.”

 

“Peer pressure.” Matt chides him, but his smile is even brighter and there’s a little more color in his cheeks. Better, he’s getting better. Foggy ignores him, sitting down and flipping open his laptop.

 

“Okay, pick your poison. Classical, modern, pop, country?” Foggy quizzes. “You have a favorite modern artist? And are they hot?”

 

“You know I can’t tell if people are attractive.” Matt chides. Foggy shoots him an unimpressed look.

 

“Can’t you though?” He argues archly. “I bet you can sense arousal.” There is a brief, guilty pause. “Oh, god. _Can_ you?”

 

That could make things awkward. Matt shrugs.

 

“Heartbeat, body temperature.” He explains tersely. “But it’s not automatic. There are plenty of reasons someone’s heart might speed up. Yours gets faster when you eat oatmeal cookies. I’m relatively certain you’re not attracted to the cookies.” Foggy flushes.

 

“No, nope.” He hurries to assure him. This is actually a good thing. Apparently Foggy’s heartbeat is a bit of a floozy, speeding up for every silly little thing. That will make it much harder for Matt to figure out Foggy’s in love with him. “Cookies and I are just friends.” He clears his throat. “So, songs. Which are also just friends, no matter what my heartbeat tells you.”

 

Matt snorts, standing behind him to peer over his shoulder. What Matt’s even trying to peer at without the ability to actually peer, Foggy has no idea. As far as Matt’s told him, he can’t peer. He can apparently pseudo-peer, but everything looks like it’s on fire to him—majorly trippy—and Foggy’s pretty sure Matt’s pseudo-peer powers don’t work on a computer screen.

 

“Can you read this?” He asks, just in case, and Matt makes a vague noise of disagreement.

 

“I’m afraid not. You’ll have to read it for me.” He tells Foggy a little sheepishly. “I don’t mind. I like the sound of your voice.”

 

Foggy considers pointing out that they’re listening to audio files, so Foggy really doesn’t have to _read_ much of anything, but he bites his tongue.

 

Matt’s got one hand on Foggy’s shoulder to balance himself and he’s close enough that Foggy can feel the ghost of breath hot in his ear when Matt talks. Whatever Matt’s peering at, if it means touching Foggy like that, Foggy’s all for it.

 

“Okay, we’ve got all the greats, obviously.” He informs Matt as lightly as he can, focusing on the touching just enough to appreciate it but not enough to _appreciate_ it. “Romantic, baroque, all that fun stuff. You could have some hardcore fiddling too, but that can get a little racy. Um, modern stuff, obviously. You can adapt pretty much anything except the really complicated piano stuff.” This is actually pretty fun. “So, do you know what you want?” Matt is silent for a moment.

 

“All of it.” He says quietly, hand tightening for a brief moment, body warm and too close. “Any of it. Anything you want.”

 

Foggy shivers, swallows, and starts picking songs. By the time they’re done for the night, Foggy will be going to probably be going to prison if he’s ever caught. He’s a pirate to rival Blackbeard himself—sure, he pirates songs instead of doubloons, but he thinks Blackbeard would be impressed anyway. It’s worth becoming a prospective jailbird though, listening to Matt humming to himself as he climbs into bed, following along with the song.

 

He looks happier, not nearly as shaken anymore. But he _wasn’t_ shaken, was he? Or at least, not in the way you’d expect. He was shaken _because_ he wasn’t shaken. He’d hurt that man, and he’d liked it. Speaking of breaking laws, that’s assault. Foggy’s pretty sure that even if Matt went for self-defense, a jury wouldn’t buy it. Too violent. _Matt’s_ too violent. Matt thinks he’s got the Devil in him. If the boyfriend presses charges, Matt will be in trouble.

 

The boyfriend’s not going to press charges. Foggy saw his face—he was terrified of Matt. Terrified that Matt would hurt him again. Matt terrifies people. Matt’s too _violent._

 

Foggy’s still not scared of him.

 

* * *

 

Now that Foggy knows, it’s hard to imagine _not_ knowing. Matt talks to him about it all the time, telling Foggy about all of the juicy gossip on campus with a mischievous smile, helping Foggy pick out the bananas that will stay fresh the longest, teasing Foggy about his heartbeat when he eats oatmeal cookies. And it’s good. Foggy likes having Matt trust him this much, smile so much more freely and share the things that make him happy.

 

It’s good, but…

 

Matt comes back to their dorm a week after the girl, and he’s got a big bruise on his cheek and a strange look on his face.

 

It’s the same one he had after the girl. It’s got a certain dazedness to it, a dizzy sort of detachment. He’s taken off his glasses already, and when Foggy gets a good look at his eyes he sees they have an almost glazed quality. He’s practically vibrating. He looks wired.

 

If it wasn’t _Matt_ , Foggy would almost wonder if he was on drugs.

 

“Please don’t tell me you ran into a doorknob.” Foggy quips. Matt shakes his head. “Did you run someone _else_ into a doorknob?” He prods patiently. Matt shrugs. “Did you do it to help someone?” Matt nods, and Foggy sighs. “Okay, I’ll get you some ice.”

 

Matt nods again and sits down on the bed. He’s got a strange half-smile on his face, like he’s not quite sure if he’s happy or not, but he’s feeling _something_ and he’s feeling it a lot.

 

Foggy grabs the ice from their small, poky little fridge and heads back to Matt. Matt holds it up to his cheek and his lips seem to finally decide on a smile. Foggy sighs again.

 

“Is this going to become a thing?” He asks, and he’s only half-joking. The rest is worried. _Please don’t make it a thing. Please. Don’t get hurt again._ Matt is silent for a moment, and then gives his smiled softens to something gentler then before but still not quite right.

 

“Why would I do it again?” Matt wonders kindly. “I’d hate to make you worry.” Foggy narrows his eyes.

 

“Don’t lawyer-speak me.” He orders sharply. “You promise, right? You won’t do it again. You’ll call the cops or something. You won’t pick fights, and you won’t get hurt.” Matt says nothing. “Matt. _Promise me.”_

 

Matt stays taut as a bowstring for a few long moments, jaw tight and eyes hunted, and then he relaxes all at once.

 

“I promise.” Matt assures him, smile even more soothing than before. “No picking fights.”

 

“Right.” Foggy says slowly, frowning. There’s something about the way Matt says it that still doesn’t feel quite right. But Matt promised. He trusts Matt. No picking fights.

 

Matt still seems a little out of it. From what Foggy can tell, Matt can get a little overloaded sometimes, too much information for even his big brain to handle. He says that any of the senses can do it, but the number one seems to be sound.

 

Music apparently calms Matt down, as long as it’s the right kind—no heavy metal, which Foggy will have to learn to deal with. And now that they’ve got the nitty-gritty stuff out of the way, it’s time to cheer Matt up.

 

“Okay, so what are we feeling? _Four Seasons_ —Vivaldi, not the hotel _? Kreutzer Sonata?_ There’s like a million concertos, so just pick a number and we can play composer roulette. Oh, or—“

 

“Just how much do you know about classical violin?” Matt asks, and his voice is less hoarse, his smile less odd and more fondly exasperated. “Have you been Googling all week?” Foggy sticks his tongue out.

 

“I am a connoisseur, my good sir.” Foggy tells him with affected haughtiness. “An aficionado of the highest order.” Matt’s smile widens to a grin.

 

“Alright.” He agrees indulgently. “Surprise me.”

 

Foggy rolls his eyes but pulls up his playlist, trying to find a good one.

 

After a second of two of searching, Foggy pulls up a file and clicks play.

 

“Oh. That’s nice.” Matt says, looking a little surprised—which is pretty offensive, actually. Foggy has awesome taste in music, heavy metal or otherwise. “ _The Lark Ascending.”_ Foggy gives him a thumbs-up.

 

“Nice.” He approves. “Knew you’d get that one.” Matt smiles sheepishly. “Yup, this is to celebrate your _ascending_ academic career, Mr. Wreck the Grade Curve.” He wants to get Matt thinking about something positive, not getting beaten up. Not _beating_ people up.

 

“It’s a lovely song.” Matt tells him softly, and he looks grateful. “Thank you.”

 

“No problem. I like this one.” Foggy waves him off. “It’s kind of old-school badass.” Matt snorts.

 

“It’s a song about a pretty little birdie.” He reminds Foggy, and Foggy smirks.

 

“And it reminds me of _you_.” He points out sweetly. “You’ll always be a pretty little birdie to me, Matt. An adorable little baby birdie, with the fluff and the begging people to feed you.” Matt rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t look too offended. Of course he doesn’t—adorable fluffy baby birdies don’t get offended. They’re too busy being fluffy and adorable.

 

“And what are you?” Matt wonders dryly.

 

“Oh, honey badger, no question.” Foggy informs him quickly. “I’m cute as all hell, but also tough as nails.” Matt smiles innocently.

 

“Honey _bee_ , I think.” He muses. “No, a bumblebee. A fuzzy little bumblebee.” Foggy glares.

 

“Screw you.” He mutters petulantly. “I’m a honey badger.” He broods for a few minutes, until the music stops and Matt clears his throat.

 

“One more time?” Foggy grins and presses replay, graciously deciding to let the honey badger thing go. Matt is clearly wrong and crazy and completely beyond help.

 

“Absolutely. A toast to my oh-so-noble baby birdie.”

 

* * *

 

“Have you ever wanted to go to a concert?” Foggy asks curiously one night. “You like listening so much, and music’s always a blast to hear live.” Matt shrugs, stripping off his shirt sexily like a total tart to put on his pajamas. Foggy swears, Matt goes so slow it’s like a striptease. He looks away quickly.

 

“Concert halls are…difficult.” Matt explains. “It’s a lot of people in an enclosed space, and there are always amplifiers. It can get a little overwhelming, all that noise.”

 

Foggy considers this for a moment. Matt’s even more sensitive to sound than he’d thought. Now that he knows it’s a problem, he’s remembering all the other times that he’s written off as just coincidence.

 

He remembers Matt hates fireworks, and he’d always assumed it was because Matt was a little miffed that he couldn’t see them. Matt won’t say it, but Foggy’s pretty sure now that Matt doesn’t like fireworks because they sound like gunshots. He doesn’t like drums either, or even _bubble wrap_ , and Foggy wonders how many gunshots Matt hears going off every day.

 

Matt’s got less sinister sound problems too. He can’t really go to rallies or sporting events because they can get too hectic, and parades? Forget it. It makes sense he can’t do concert halls, even though they seem more sedate at first glance. So Matt can probably never go to one without the music being ruined by everything else.

 

A thought strikes Foggy.

 

“But you’d want to listen live, if you could.” He guesses slowly. Matt shrugs again, taking off—okay, taking off his pants, _why_ did Foggy even bother looking back at him?

 

“Of course.” Matt says softly. “But I can’t. It’s okay.” He doesn’t sound like it’s okay. He sounds like it’s accepted, but not okay.

 

“Mm-hmm.” Foggy agrees, distracted. He has an idea. A wonderful, wonderful idea.

 

He waits until he thinks Matt’s asleep, and then he pulls out his phone and pulls up his contacts. He’d call his parents, but apparently Matt could hear that across campus if he wanted to, and this needs to be a surprise.

 

He texts instead. His mother is thrilled to hear from him, and it takes a promise of a visit in the next week—no, two, and you’re staying for dinner, I bet you’re too skinny—but she finally agrees. Foggy grins and puts away his phone.

 

This is going to be great.

 

* * *

 

“Can we have something happy tonight?” Matt asks, looking weary. He looks weary a lot lately, going to extra study groups at night when even Foggy’s given up for the day. They can go for hours and Matt’s always exhausted when he comes back—Matt’s seriously committed to school, apparently. Sometimes it looks like the books were hitting him instead of him hitting the books. It is _unbelievable_ how committed to school Matt is.

 

Foggy bounces to his feet.

 

“Happy. I can do happy.” He tells Matt lightly, and pulls the case out from under his bed. When he unpacks it and starts to warm up, he grins when Matt looks stunned.

 

“You play the violin?” Foggy grins wider and pauses in his work.

 

“Pretty damn well.” He agrees smugly. “I am a man of many talents. My mom gave me a choice: butcher or professional violinist. So she was doubly disappointed when I rebelled and went to law school.” He finishes warming up and grins expectantly. “So, something happy?”

 

Matt nods a little hesitantly, like he’s expecting Foggy to change his mind, or else admit that it’s a joke and he doesn’t really play the violin. A moment later, when Foggy starts playing, Matt bursts out laughing.

 

“ _Aladdin_?” He asks incredulously. Foggy grins and plays through the rest of ‘Friend Like Me’ with great gusto. When he’s done, he lowers his instrument just enough to point his bow at Matt.

 

“Why aren’t you singing along?” He accuses. “This is a perfect song to sing along to.” Matt shakes his head.

 

“I’m an awful singer.” He argues, and Foggy grins.

 

“I know.” He agrees cheerfully. “But I am an _amazing_ violinist, so it works out.” Matt looks unconvinced. “Come on, Matt. I _know_ you know the words.” Matt shrugs ambiguously, looking embarrassed. He totally knows the words. “It’ll be fun.”

 

Matt sighs, shoulders slumping, but finally nods. Foggy beams and starts from the beginning again. Matt signs along, and it’s _horrible._ He’s completely off-key, and he doesn’t quite seem to know how loud he should be singing so his volume is all over the place, and he doesn’t remember all the words so he just hums vaguely at some parts.

 

Foggy loves it.

 

“Great.” He praises, lowering the violin to his lap. “We should start a band.” Matt laughs, still a little flushed from his embarrassment at singing the song.

 

“Absolutely not.” He denies flatly, and then hesitates. “You didn’t have to do that.” Foggy shrugs.

 

“You said you liked live music.” He points out easily. Matt watches him for a moment. Foggy wonders what he sees—Matt sees the world differently than anyone else he knows, fire and darkness and not quite seeing at all.

 

“I did.” He agrees quietly. “Thank you.” Foggy grins happily. Matt’s speaking softly, but he sounds content. A little less worn-out. Foggy plays another song, and makes Matt sing along to that one too. By the time they’re climbing into bed, Matt’s humming every song from _Aladdin_ and several from _Little Mermaid_ in a strange, kind of catchy mash-up. Matt’s a better hummer than he is a singer, thank goodness.

 

“Foggy?” Matt whispers. Foggy makes a sleepy sound to show he’s listening. “You’re right. I never _have_ had a friend like you.”

 

Foggy covers his face with his pillow to hide his smile. Matt can’t see it, but it’s still too embarrassingly goofy to show. Maybe Matt will be able to sense it somehow anyway, but it’s worth a shot.

 

“Same here, Matty.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You lasted longer than I thought you would.”

 

Matt swallows, holding the towel to his split lip to stop the bleeding.

 

“I mean, it’s been years. That’s pretty good.” Foggy muses. “You know how long it’s been, Matt?” Matt shrugs, eyes downcast. “Four. It’s been four years since you promised me you wouldn’t get in fights.” Foggy informs him, saying what they both already know. He smiles a little sadly. “Four years of getting into fights anyway, and not asking for help.”

 

He’s not dumb. Matt broke his promise not to fight about three days after he gave it. Honestly, ‘late-night study sessions’? Totally code. ‘Late-night study sessions’ means sex for most people, and apparently street fighting for Matt.

 

Matt is a strange man, but Foggy loves him anyway.

 

Matt stiffens, eyes going wide and snapping back up towards Foggy. His hand falters, towel falling from his fingers. Foggy catches it and presses it back to his face.

 

“Don’t look so surprised.” Foggy tells him dryly. “Come on, man. How many times have I patched you up after you ‘punched a wall’? With your face?”

 

Matt starts to say something, and Foggy moves the towel to cover the rest of his mouth and keep him from speaking.

 

“No, nope. Shush. The adult is talking.” He chides. “You’ve been doing it more lately. I’ve been worried—why do you think I’ve been asking you out for so many dinners and drinks and desserts? Someone’s got to keep you from being a hero every single night. You need a break.”

 

Matt blinks. He gestures with one hand towards his mouth, beseeching. Foggy sighs, but pulls away the towel.

 

“I thought you just liked spending time with me.” He rasps, a thread of humor in his voice but mostly just shock and guilt. He really did not see this coming. What an idiot. Foggy snorts.

 

“Come on, you know I love you.” He retorts lightly. He’s gotten much better at saying this without his heart speeding up, because it doesn’t make him nervous anymore. He loves Matt. It’s natural and easy and obvious. Matt might not know just how _much_ Foggy loves him, but he knows that Foggy does. “Which means I take care of you, right?”

 

“You didn’t tell me you knew.” Matt accuses, like he has any right to be pointing fingers. “How could you not tell me?” Foggy rolls his eyes.

 

“Mostly because I was waiting for my best friend to demonstrate his deep trust for me by _telling me the truth_.” Foggy informs him pointedly. Matt winces. “Uh-huh. Don’t you try to play the blame game with me, Matthew Murdock.”

 

“I’m not blaming you.” Matt assures him. “It just would have been useful to know. That’s all.” He adds casually. Foggy narrows his eyes.

 

“You’re still playing.” He points out lowly. “Quit before I pwn you.” Matt glares, but quits. “Exactly. Now say you’re sorry like a good little vigilante.”

 

There’s a second of tense silence, and then Matt’s shoulders slump.

 

“Sorry.” He mutters sullenly. Honestly, he’s like a pouting child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Can we not fight, please?”

 

 _I thought you liked picking fights,_ Foggy almost snaps. He’s still stung about Matt not telling him. Every time he thinks he’s accepted it, it just flares back up. He _wants_ to snap, but Matt’s looking miserable and twisting the bloody towel nervously between his hands. Foggy sighs.

 

“It was worse this time, wasn’t it?” He asks. “Bad enough that you finally needed to talk to me about it.” Matt hesitates, and then nods. “Who?”

 

There’s no question it’s a ‘who’. Matt wouldn’t do this without a ‘who’ that needed help.

 

“Girl.” Matt tells him tersely. “Crying at night.” There’s a bitter slant to his mouth. “Father.” Foggy closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath. A _kid._

 

“How old?” Matt shrugs.

 

“Young.” He says shortly, vague. “Very young.”

 

Foggy would bet money that Matt knows her age down to the day. He obsesses over things like this, every detail in every case to build a better picture in his head.

 

“It was bad, huh? You hurt him a lot.” He looks down at Matt’s knuckles, almost split they’re so bruised up. Matt nods tightly. “As bad as the boyfriend with the broken arms?”

 

“Worse.” Matt admits, but he doesn’t sound ashamed about it. He clearly thought the man deserved everything he got. Foggy shivers. A kid. The man _did_ deserve it. No kid should be crying at night because they’re afraid to sleep in their own bed, not ever.

 

He leans back to peer out the window.

 

“Still night.” He notes idly. Matt nods, eyebrows furrowed. “Hold on.” He makes sure Matt’s lip isn’t bleeding anymore before heading to his room and grabbing the violin.

 

“What are you going to play?” Matt asks, curious and still a little too tightly wound. Foggy smiles, melancholy.

 

“Brahms.” He decides. “A lullaby to help a little girl have sweet dreams.”

 

Matt swallows hard, but nods tightly in agreement.

 

Foggy plays it a little more slowly than normal, making every note count, clear and sweet. It’s a lullaby and a bedtime story. He plays it gently, but adds an especially light and happy note at the end. Happy ending.

 

He keeps his eyes closed while he’s playing, concentrating on making it perfect. When he opens them, Matt’s standing in front of him. Foggy doesn’t even step back, just waits quietly for Matt to speak. Matt’s got tears running down his face. He’s smiling too, and even the faint stretch is enough to open the cut on his lip again. Blood and tears.

 

“I love you.” He tells Foggy quietly.

 

Even if he wasn’t reaching out to run a delicate finger down Foggy’s cheek, it would still be clear he didn’t mean it in a friendly way. The smile is soft and so, so tender around the bloody edges. Foggy smiles back, just wide enough that Matt can feel the corner of it against his fingertip.

 

“Love you too.” Matt’s smile softens even more, and he leans forward to press the lightest kiss at the same corner of Foggy’s mouth. There’s really nothing sexy or seductive about it, just a gentle brush of lips. A thank-you.

 

“That was beautiful.” He murmurs when he pulls away. “You were beautiful.”

 

Foggy licks his lips. Salt and iron. Blood and tears.

 

“Another one, maybe.” He offers quietly. He’s not sure which one he’s talking about, the kiss or the lullaby. Probably both. Matt presses another kiss to his skin, this time to his forehead.

 

“As many as we can.” He agrees. Foggy thinks Matt’s talking about both too.

 

So, another lullaby. Another kiss. Another lullaby. Another kiss.

 

All night long, to help everybody have sweet dreams.

 

* * *

 

It’s easy, being with Matt.

 

Foggy honestly hadn’t thought that Matt would ever love him back in the same way. He was cool with it, glad that he had Matt as a friend, and he didn’t need any more. It was nice enough having someone to love—it’s the best feeling in the world.

 

Having someone love you back? That’s the best feeling, times a million. And now that Matt’s said it the once, he can’t seem to stop.

 

‘Love you’, Matt tells him when Foggy hands him a file at work.

 

‘Love you’, when Foggy puts sugar in his coffee.

 

‘Love you’, when Foggy finds the keys to their apartment where Matt lost them _in_ the coffeepot, what a freak.

 

‘Love you’, when he wakes Foggy up in the morning with a kiss.

 

‘Love you’, when Foggy plays him a song.

 

Matt loves music, more than anyone Foggy’s ever met. He says that when the sounds are right, it’s almost tangible for him, something he can taste on his tongue and feel on his skin.

 

It’s a bit like snake charming, Foggy thinks. Matt will move and act differently depending on what Foggy plays. Foggy learns, keeps a notebook full of songs and the reactions Matt has to them.

 

There are the calming songs, the ones that Foggy plays when Matt comes home from a long night and he’s not tired yet, adrenaline sparking through his body. There are happy songs for when Matt feels like he’s not doing enough, and lullabies when Matt needs to sleep. There are even some songs that make Matt very eager for certain bedroom activities— _very_ eager.

 

And there are victory songs too. They have one of those when they graduate, one when they quit Landman and Zack, and one after they solve their first case as partners.

 

“The _Sherlock_ theme?” Matt teases, but he’s grinning. Foggy finishes with a flourish and gives a bright bow.

 

“We are officially a crime-fighting duo.” He points out, giddy at the thought. “We are among the greats, and we can borrow their theme song.”

 

“Do you have sheet music for this?” Matt asks curiously after giving an appreciative round of applause. “I didn’t hear paper.” Foggy shakes his head.

 

“Not for the modern stuff. It’s nice to adlib it where you can, make it your own.” He explains. “It’s all about tone and interpretation.” A thought strikes him. “Hey, you’d probably be pretty good at this. You ever tried?” He’s not sure why he never thought of it before.

 

Then he remembers Matt’s singing. Oh yeah, that’s why. Still, just because the guy can’t hit a note with his voice doesn’t mean he can’t hit it with his bow.

 

Matt shrugs.

 

“I tried a few instruments when I was younger, but I never quite had the knack.” He admits. “And after the accident, it was hard to listen to anything for a while. I think I might have missed my chance—it’s a bit late to become a virtuoso.”

 

Foggy snorts.

 

“I highly doubt there is anything in the world that you’re bad at—except singing. And cooking. And doing the dishes. And getting the mail. And _not_ flirting with people.” He considers. “Wow, I take it back. You’re bad at a lot of things.” Matt glares. “But, I’d bet good money you’re not bad at violin.”

 

“I really am.” Matt assures him dryly. “It sounded like a cat being skinned. I quit before my hearing became enhanced, thank goodness. I’m not sure my ears could survive it now.” He shrugs. “Besides, I like listening to you.”

 

“That’s just your all-purpose pick-up line, isn’t it?” Foggy accuses, and Matt winces a little sheepishly. “You, sir, are a player. You just chat people up with your ‘oh, you sound like a choir of angels singing’, and then you throw in the smirk and the puppy eyes and you expect the whole world to swoon.”

 

“You have to admit, it has helped us in the past.” Matt points out. This is true. They’ve used it when they didn’t have enough money to cover dinner, when they needed an extension on an assignment at Landman and Zack, and when they wanted to get into restaurants without reservations.

 

They ruthlessly abuse Matt’s flirting skills, and it’s especially ridiculous because in private, Matt’s an awful flirt. He’s too busy grinning dopily. His smirk stopped being effective years ago (kind of a little maybe not really).

 

“You’re very lucky I’m not a jealous man.” He informs Matt seriously. “Even though I have way more of a right than you do.”

 

“I’m not jealous.” Matt denies, frowning. “I’m very easygoing.” Foggy gives a burst of incredulous laughter.

 

“Easygoing? Matt, you made out with me for ten minutes on your desk today when I said that Karen was cute. In a totally platonic way, might I add.” He considers. “The cute thing was platonic, not the making out. Just to clarify, because _clearly_ you groping me in the middle of the office could be misconstrued as just-friendly.”

 

“You just seemed like you needed a kiss.” Matt argues innocently. “It had nothing to do with Karen.”

 

“Your office door was open! She was _right there!”_ Foggy hisses. “Which I didn’t know, but you did since you have almost-echolocation.” Matt smirks.

 

“Coincidence.” He denies easily. “Although it’s probably better to be clear about these things from the beginning. We should cultivate a sense of trust and openness.”

 

“Door-openness.” Foggy growls. “Apparently. That wasn’t subtle.” Matt shrugs.

 

“Coincidence.” He says again, light. Foggy watches him for a moment, thoughtful.

 

“You look like the cat that got the cream.” Matt shrugs, smirk widening. Foggy smiles at him. “Well, good. I guess you don’t need any more cream tonight.” Matt blinks, then bursts out laughing.

 

“Firstly, that was an awful joke worthy of a very low-budget adult film.” He points out. “Secondly, tonight we’re celebrating.” Foggy snorts.

 

“And you automatically assume that celebrating means sex?” Matt remains pointedly silent. Foggy glares. “Nope. Tonight we are having celebratory violin lessons. Yay.” He adds with exaggerated enthusiasm.

 

“That doesn’t seem very celebratory.” Matt tells him, but Foggy just keeps glaring. Matt appears to have a glare-sense, because he gives in like he always does. He sighs, standing, and makes his way over to where Foggy’s waiting.

 

“This might break your eardrums.” Matt warns, carefully taking the violin like he thinks it’s going to explode if he holds it wrong. He knows the stance fairly well, Foggy notes with pride. Good memory and good physical discipline, his Matt all over.

 

“It’ll be great.” Foggy urges. “Just try something you like. Something easy.” Matt sighs and starts.

 

It sounds like a _tone-deaf_ cat being skinned.

 

“Um.” Foggy says, staring into space for a moment until his ears stop screaming from the abuse.

 

“I told you.” Matt mutters. “I don’t know why I can’t do it. I should be able to.”

 

He actually looks a little frustrated, which was not the point of this. It was supposed to be sharing something with Matt, and also celebrating. It should be fun.

 

“You probably just had a bad teacher.” Foggy offers. Matt doesn’t seem convinced. “No, okay. I’ll teach you, okay? You’re a fast learner—I bet we can get through the motions really fast, and then you’ll be playing Vivaldi in no time.”

 

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Matt hedges. “What if I break your violin?” He sounds genuinely concerned, not like he’s just throwing out excuses. Foggy rolls his eyes.

 

“I’ve had it for years. It’s a tough little thing. As long as you don’t use it as a club to beat up criminals, we should be okay.” He looks Matt up and down. “Don’t use it as a club to beat up criminals.” He orders, just in case. Matt frowns.

 

“Its heft is all off. It would be a terrible club.” Foggy stares at him. “Which doesn’t matter because I would never use it as one.” Matt adds hastily.

 

“Uh-huh.” Foggy agrees dubiously. Matt’s mind is a scary place sometimes. “So, we’ll start with finger placements.” Matt groans. “Come on, Matt. You’re so _good_ with your fingers. _Very_ skilled.” He winks. Matt apparently has a wink-sense in addition to a glare-sense, because he smiles incredulously.

 

“You’re shameless tonight.” He informs Foggy. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather celebrate in our usual way?” It’s pretty obviously a copout, so Foggy shakes his head.

 

“Later. You finish lesson one, I do position fifteen.” He compromises enticingly. Matt snaps to attention.

 

“Start teaching.”

 

Foggy grins. He would have done position fifteen anyway. Matt’s a sucker. He considers _telling_ Matt that he’s a sucker, but he’s already said enough dirty jokes tonight. He needs to save them—they’re precious currency. They’re comedy _gold._

 

“Alright. Impress me and you get position ten too.” He would have done that anyway too. Sucker, seriously.

 

“Teach. Now.” Matt grits out. Foggy does.

 

* * *

 

Matt’s good at the violin. He’s still a beginner, but he’s actually managed to do a scale without making the violin sound like it wants to die. That’s some pretty impressive progress for a newbie.

 

It’s good for Matt to have something to focus on too. He gets distracted sometimes by things Foggy can’t hear, and he needs something to bring him back. If it’s mild, having Matt practice scales will do the trick. If it’s worse, Foggy plays instead.

 

If it’s _worst,_ Foggy tries to play something particularly uplifting and sweet. This works for a while, until Matt apparently takes a nap in the dumpster and has to be rescued by a lovely and heroic nurse.

 

Foggy looks at Matt, and he can’t think of something uplifting and sweet.

 

Matt’s been hurt before, sure. Foggy hates it every single time, and he’s too good at first aid now for his comfort, but Matt’s always okay to go the next morning. Still sore, change the bandages, keep ice on it, but he’s _okay_. He’s not okay this time. This is the worst he’s ever been hurt, and Foggy can’t stop thinking about it.

 

“ _Danse Macabre?”_ Matt rasps, lying on their bed above the covers and looking beaten black and blue. “That’s a little dark for you.” Foggy ignores him, finishing the piece.

 

“Dance of Death.” Foggy translates curtly when he’s done. “Fitting, considering what a romantic little waltz you had with Her tonight.” Matt flinches.

 

“Oh.” He whispers, struck. He looks completely dejected, almost heartbroken. Foggy sighs.

 

“Maybe a little heavy-handed.” He allows. “A bit too dramatic.” Matt shakes his head, smiling weakly.

 

“No, it’s a lovely piece.” He praises, but he still looks stricken. “Very—very appropriate.” Foggy sighs again, lowering his violin.

 

“It was mean.” He corrects Matt bluntly. “It _is_ a great piece, but it’s not what you need right now.” He hesitates. “I don’t know _what_ you need right now, other than a miracle and some pain medication.”

 

Matt pats the bed next to him in answer. Foggy sighs but obediently starts packing away his violin.

 

“I’m sorry.” Matt tells him quietly while he’s working. Foggy pauses, looking up from his case.

 

“You don’t have to be—“ He stops, frustrated. “There’s some part of me that wants you to be sorry, yeah. Sorry that you’re putting yourself in danger like this, sorry that you do too much and get hurt doing it, sorry for a million things, but—you don’t have to be sorry.” He waves at Matt with the bow before putting it away too. “This is you, and I love you.”

 

“I’ll be more careful.” Matt promises, rather nonsensically. Foggy slips the case under their bed and climbs on over the covers, next to Matt.

 

“I’d hoped you were already being careful.” Foggy teases, trying to lighten his tone to something a little less ‘dance of death’. “But yeah, sure. Turn that careful up to eleven.”

 

“I will be.” Matt insists. “I’ll focus on reconnaissance, call the larger-scale crimes in.”

 

He looks very earnest, which is why Foggy decides to be gentle.

 

“You do what you have to do.” He agrees vaguely. He tries to keep Matt away from specific promises about what he does in the mask, because Matt hates when he breaks a promise, and he _will_ break it.

 

Matt’s not going to call it in. Matt _never_ calls it in, or at least not until he’s gotten in all of his punches. He’s a one-man army. But even though Matt’s not going to call it in, he’s not lying—or at least, he doesn’t _think_ he’s lying.

 

He does this every time he gets hurt, tells Foggy intently that he’s going to be less of a hero next time, let the professionals handle it, and Matt _believes_ it. He’s sure he can be more passive if he tries a little harder, but Foggy thinks it’s not in his nature. How he acts around others, that’s one thing, but at home? In the mask? Matt doesn’t have a passive bone in his body.

 

And Matt’s going to figure this out the next time he runs into danger. He’ll get in a fight, and then he’ll feel sore and tired and _guilty_ on top of all that for breaking his promise. They’ve tried this before, but after the first five times that Matt came home with a few too many scrapes and a remorseful look on his face, Foggy stopped asking for promises.

 

Matt keeps every _other_ promise he gives. He does everything else Foggy asks him to, with a smile and a kiss. He never forgets any of their anniversaries, and he even remembers ones that Foggy has no clue about—‘oh, today is the first day we shared a pizza together, isn’t it romantic?’ He’s an amazing guy, and he tries hard. He tries _too_ hard, but his breakneck vigilantism is part of the Matt Murdock package.

 

Foggy knows that, and he accepts it, but sometimes he still has to play _Danse Macabre._ He’ll play at the studio next time, rent out a soundproofed room across the city so that Matt doesn’t have to hear. It’s _his_ soundproof room—the owners know him by name. He’s used it for years to practice the songs that aren’t good enough, the ones that he’s not ready to show Matt yet.

 

Now he’ll also use the room for the songs that he’ll _never_ be ready to show Matt.

 

“Okay.” Matt agrees, and he looks so _proud_ that he’s solved the problem.Foggy sighs and squeezes his hand. At least Matt can’t break this promise. He’ll do what he thinks he has to do, and Foggy will think of happier songs to play him. He’ll write down a list so he won’t forget the next time he needs them.

 

“Bedtime.” Foggy tells him, reaching over to turn off the lamp.

 

“I didn’t get a goodnight kiss.” Matt complains, but it’s content. He’s satisfied now that he knows Foggy isn’t mad and he’s made a ‘promise’. Foggy rolls his eyes, but kisses him. “That wasn’t a very passionate goodnight kiss.” He informs Foggy teasingly.

 

“It’s a _goodnight_ kiss. It’s supposed to make you sleepy, not horny.” He explains, but he does give Matt one more kiss, longer this time. “There. Happy?” Matt sighs, sounding very happy.

 

“It really was a lovely song.” Matt tells him dreamily, rolling over to rest his head on Foggy’s shoulder, carefully so that he doesn’t jostle any of his injuries. Foggy wraps an arm around his waist and kisses the top of his head.

 

“Lovely song for a lovely man.” Foggy quips. Matt huffs.

 

“Go to sleep before you embarrass yourself with your horrible flirting.” Matt advises, and then after a brief pause, he adds quietly, “I _will_ be careful.”

 

Foggy wonders how much it would cost to buy the soundproofed room. He gets the awful feeling he’s going to need it.

 

* * *

 

“How you do stand it?” Matt whispers. When Foggy glances over, he sees that Matt’s sitting on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest and staring into space.

 

“Stand what?” Foggy asks, going for light. “My cooking’s not that bad.” He finishes putting away the chicken in the Tupperware while he’s waiting for Matt to explain, because he knows Matt’s not talking about his cooking. Matt loves his cooking.

 

“How do you stand knowing that someone you love is hurt and bleeding and there’s nothing you can do to fix it?” Matt asks, squeezing his knees tighter. “You can see the blood, but I can smell it, and I’m not sure which is worse. I can’t look away like you can—it’s there all the time.”

 

“Matt, I’m not bleeding anymore.” Foggy reminds him gently, coming over to join him on the couch. “Claire says I’m doing really well.”

 

“I still smell the blood.” Matt murmurs. “I don’t know if I can stop.” He swallows. “It was my fault.”

 

“Matt, I want to be sweet and supportive right now.” Foggy informs him honestly. “But honestly? Don’t be a fucking idiot.” Matt startles, looking up with wide eyes. “None of this is your fault. You didn’t tell me to be at Mrs. Cardenas’ apartment. You didn’t tell me to stand near a window. You didn’t set the bombs. You’re _not_ the reason I’m hurt.”  

 

“I provoked them.” Matt argues. Foggy snorts.

 

“Oh, right. You saved people’s lives. Wow, Matt, how selfish can you be? Putting yourself in danger to keep other people safe. How tacky.” Matt looks away. “Matt. They’d have done it anyway. The only reason they tried to frame you is because you’re getting under their skin. Because you’re doing good. You’re their biggest threat. They’re _scared_ of you.” He smiles and bops Matt’s shin gently. “They should be scared. You’re going to win.” 

 

“I might not.” Matt reminds him quietly. Foggy considers that for a second.

 

“Then you’ll go down fighting. And you’ll get back up again. That’s what you Murdocks do.” He grins. “And we Nelsons help Murdocks get back up again. Family tradition, starting now.”

 

Matt is silent for a long minute, watching him. Fire, Foggy thinks. Good. Fire’s alive, fire’s still burning. If Matt sees fire, he’ll know Foggy’s okay and he’s not leaving.

 

“Are we a family?” He asks softly. Foggy nods, touching Matt’s shoulder.

 

“Of course we are.” He promises. “We love each other, we support each other, and we put up with each other’s bad habits. We’re pretty much the definition of family. I bet there’s a cute little picture of us in the dictionary, right next to the words.”

 

“You’re a dork.” Matt tells him, but his smile is shy and pleased. “It’s probably an awful picture.” Foggy nods agreeably, thrilled that Matt’s okay enough to joke again.

 

“It’s that one of us at the beach.” He informs Matt solemnly. “When you got so sunburned you looked like a lobster, and you ripped your swim trunks. I look great though.” He admits. “Very sexy. Like Poseidon if he was a Playgirl model.”

 

“You told me you burned those pictures.” Matt accuses, smile a little more certain. Foggy shrugged.

 

“Only thing that got burned that day was you.” He confesses shamelessly. “Red as a lobster.” A brilliant thought strikes. “No, red as a _devil._ Foreshadowing, Matt. You were meant to be the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. The universe has spoken.”  Matt shakes his head, exasperated. It’s better than the dark mood of before.

 

“The universe could have been a little kinder about it.” He sighs, wincing like he remembers the sunburn. They’d had to rub aloe on it for hours and give him ice baths. Not the most exciting mini-vacation, but it was with Matt so it was automatically amazing. Foggy shrugs.

 

“They wanted to make sure you got the message.” He offers. “And, just in case you didn’t, I have something else to prove it.”

 

He pats Matt’s knee one more time and gets the violin.

 

“There’s no way that you have a song for this.” Matt teases. Foggy smirks.

 

“Just wait and hear.” He advises, and plays.

 

The soundproof room was a good investment. He’d been rusty, and it had taken him all this time just to remember the motions again for this song. It was worth it though, to see Matt’s eyes get wider and wider, lips parting. He slowly lowers his legs back to the floor, leaning forward eagerly. Foggy finishes bright and strong, side only twinging a little and only slightly out of breath.

 

“Tada!” He bows. Matt’s standing now, but frozen. “Tartini’s Violin Sonata in G Minor. Also known as…” He gestures encouragingly with his bow. Matt licks his lips.

 

“The Devil’s Trill.” He murmurs hoarsely. Foggy beams. “How do you know that song? It’s incredibly difficult. It can take years to learn.” Foggy nods happily.

 

“Years and years.” He agrees. “But I started pretty young. It was my final project for my music minor in college—which, by the way, pushed me over a 4.0 and is probably one of the reasons I got into Columbia—but I’d been practicing for ages before that. Since I was a kid.” He explains.

 

“Why?” Matt asks, stunned. “There are easier songs.” Foggy shrugs.

 

“It’s the reason I started violin in the first place.” He admits. “I heard it at a concert, and I fell in love with it.” He grins. “I was already falling in love with Devils when I was six years old. So clearly you were meant to be the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen because I was meant to love Devils.”

 

“I love you.” Matt tells him, voice thick, taking slow steps forward until they’re close enough to touch. “I’ll stop them. I’ll make them pay for hurting you.”

 

Promises again. He keeps Matt away from promises that Matt is going to break, but not this time. Foggy thinks this is one Matt can keep.

 

“See, very devilish.” He praises. “Vengeance and wrath. Best Devil ever, and also best boyfriend.” Matt hugs him, careful not to bump the violin or hurt Foggy’s side. “Best boyfriend who is going to cook dinner tonight for his delightfully talented lover.” Foggy adds slyly. Matt sighs, but he’s smiling.

 

“Scrambled eggs with cheese?” Foggy beams, kissing him on the cheek.

 

“Best. Boyfriend. Ever.”

 

* * *

 

“I think I hate that guy.” Foggy informs Matt thoughtfully. “And I’m not big on hating people.”

 

He picks up another book that was thrown from the shelf in the fight and puts it back on the crooked shelf. IKEA had said the bookshelf was an easy project, but IKEA is a dirty rotten liar. Matt nods absently, turning the table back upright.

 

He hasn’t been talking much since Stick left. Foggy had only met the guy for a second, but he already knows he’s serious hate material. What’s worse is that Matt couldn’t see it, but there had been a hint of pride in Stick’s face went he’d pushed past Foggy and left. The guy actually _likes_ Matt, at least a little. And he still broke their apartment and made Matt miserable.

 

What an asshole.

 

“So, that was your old sensei, huh? He’s not as cool as I thought he’d be.” Matt shrugs. “I guess you learned your coolness somewhere else.” Matt shrugs again. “Probably from me.” Another shrug. _Honestly._ It’s like talking to a shrugging brick wall.

 

Foggy sighs and finishes cleaning up the apartment as much as he can. They’ll probably need to visit that hellhole known as IKEA again to replace some furniture. This time Foggy is going to actually read the instructions—well, maybe he’ll skim them—well, maybe he’ll glance at them—well, maybe he’ll just keep the instruction book next to him and pick up the steps by psychic osmosis.

 

“He really messes you up.” Foggy informs Matt bluntly. “Come on, don’t let him get to you.” Matt straightens a chair. “You’re not the kid he taught anymore. You don’t need to impress him, okay?” Matt looks away.

 

“Sometimes I worry that he’s right.” Matt admits quietly, the first thing he’s said in over an hour.  “Talking to him again, it’s…it’s hard. It’s instinct to listen to him. He’s the one who showed me everything I know.” He sounds torn, which is ridiculous.

 

“’Showed’.” Foggy emphasizes. “Past tense. You’re not his student. You’re Matt Murdock, attorney extraordinaire, kickass crime fighter, and best boyfriend in the world. Your dance card is full, no room for being the sidekick of a strange drifter ninja.” Matt nods, but he doesn’t seem convinced. “You’re a violin student now, not a fighting one.”

 

“I’m better at the fighting.” Matt tells him honestly. Foggy shakes his head.

 

“You’ve been doing it longer. You give it twenty years, you’ll be just as good at violin. Stick will be so jealous. I bet he doesn’t have a musical bone in his body, the sourpuss.”

 

“Sourpuss? Really?” Matt asks skeptically, and Foggy grins.

 

“You know he is.” He urges. Matt looks away, totally hiding a little smile. “If anyone should be a teacher, it should be you. Maybe you can teach Stick how to pull that _stick_ out his ass.” Matt gives a tiny, guilty snort of laughter.

 

“He can hear you.” He warns Foggy. “He’s got a wide range, and he’s still close by.” He’s got his head tilted, presumably listening to where Stick is.

 

“Really?” Foggy asks, delighted. Matt gives him a suspicious look, but nods. “Awesome. Stick, Matt is cooler than you. The student has surpassed the master. Your name is weird.” Foggy says, loud and deliberate. Matt claps a hand over his mouth.

 

“Shh.” He chides, but he’s smiling. “Don’t.”

 

“If I said he was nice, he could tell I was lying.” Foggy points out when Matt pulls his hand away. “Honesty is important.”

 

“You’re a brat.” Matt tells him fondly. Foggy nods.

 

“Hey, you should say something too.” He urges. “Get all those icky feelings out. Come on, do your worst.”

 

“I have nothing to say.” Matt tells him a little stiffly, and Foggy gets the feeling he’s saying it more to Stick than Foggy. Their hearing is unreal—incredible, but a little unnerving when it’s not Matt doing the listening. Still, as long as they have the chance…

 

“If you can’t say, you can play.” Foggy tells him excitedly, scrambling over to their room.

 

“No.” Matt says firmly, backing away from the violin when Foggy tries to shove it in his arms. “No.”

 

“Come on, you’re really good.” Foggy coaxes. “It’s kind of a big middle finger, saying that you’re more than a fighter. He’ll be impressed by your balls even if he’s not impressed by your playing. Which he will be, because you’re really good.”

 

“I’m not giving my mentor an impromptu recital.” Matt tells him flatly. “He has enhanced hearing. It would be like torture for him.” He pauses for a moment, thoughtful. Realization dawns. “Ah. Give me the violin.”

 

“Alright!” Foggy cheers. Sure, Matt’s doing it as a combat tactic, but it’s still going to be amazing. Matt’s better than he thinks. “Take it away, Matt!”

 

Matt starts playing, careful and slow. Despite his implied intention to torment Stick with the sound, he’s still trying to make it sound good. Always aiming to impress, Foggy thinks fondly. Matt can’t do anything but give his best.

 

“Matty had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb…” Foggy sings along under his breath. Matt gives a brief grin but keeps playing. He finishes it with no mistakes, which is impressive. He must be nervous.

 

“Can you hear him?” Matt nods slowly. “What’s he saying?”

 

“He’s laughing.” Matt tells him. Foggy’s offended until Matt adds with a small smile. “He says it figures I’d pick a girly song like this.” His smile widens. “But at least it’s good for reflexes. I think he likes it.”

 

“Hey, you’ve got better taste than I thought.” Foggy calls to Stick. “Now, I suggest you stop listening, because I am going to reward my boyfriend for a very successful first recital, and I don’t think you’ll want to hear that part.”

 

“He says you’re a smartass.” Matt informs him. “But he’s started running…” Matt listens for a moment. “…And he’s out of range.”

 

“That’s a handy trick.” Foggy muses cheerfully. Matt rolls his eyes, but he seems happier. Whether it’s from playing or managing to impress his ex-mentor a little, Foggy’s not sure. Matt shoots him an exasperated look.

 

“Did you have to sing the lyrics?” He grumbles, and Foggy grins.

 

“’Matty Had a Little Lamb’ is a masterpiece that needs to be shared with the world.” Foggy informs him seriously. “It’s our magnum opus.”

 

“It is catchy.” Matt admits reluctantly. “And I do like being the inspiration for a song.”

 

“Yeah, you’re a star. You’re my muse!” Foggy praises brightly. “Want to inspire me some more?” He asks, wiggling his eyebrows in a totally seductive way. “I’m wiggling my eyebrows seductively.” He adds so that Matt can appreciate the seduction. Matt considers him for a second.

 

“You really do have no shame.” He says, sounding a little fascinated. “And what song would I be inspiring?”

 

“Matty Cake, Matty Cake.” Foggy tells him quickly. “Already working on the lyrics.”

 

“So you’re just going to cheat and insert my name into more nursery rhymes?” Matt sighs, and Foggy shrugs.

 

“I can’t help where the music takes me.” He claims breezily. “So, Mr. Muse. Want to make some sweet music together?” More seductive eyebrow-wiggling.

 

“Any other awful pick-up lines you want to offer?” Matt wonders wryly. Foggy grins.

 

“Oh, like a million. Let’s end tonight on a high note. I bet you’re good at handling a long, hard bow. I’d like to play your body like a violin.” Foggy offers eagerly.

 

Matt groans and turns on his heel.

 

“I’m going to bed.” He mutters. Foggy beams and trails after him.

 

“Good idea.”

 

“I’m locking you out.” Matt adds over his shoulder. “You can sleep on the couch until you learn not to use tacky musical innuendo.” Foggy yelps and starts running, but Matt gets in first and closes the door.

 

“No, Matt, come one. Matty, please let me in?” Foggy begs, knocking on the door. Matt ignores him. “I love you. I adore you. I worship you.” He tries enticingly. Still nothing. Foggy sighs. “I’ll let _you_ play _my_ body like a violin.” He offers hopefully.

 

The door swings open.

 

“I suppose we can be each other’s muse.” Matt admits. Foggy cheers and hurries in before Matt can change his mind. “And I do have a few finger exercises I’ve been wanting to try.” Foggy laughs delightedly and kisses him.

 

“See, this is why you’re a prodigy. You catch on quick.”

 

* * *

 

“Matt brags about you all the time.” Claire tells him quietly. Foggy nods tightly and starts another song. “He gets so happy. When I need to stitch him up and he doesn’t want medication, I ask him to talk about you. He doesn’t even notice the needle, he’s too busy humming the last song you played him.”

 

Foggy grits his teeth and keeps playing. Claire touches his shoulder gently.

 

“You should take a break.” She urges. “You’ve been playing for an hour.” Foggy takes a shaky breath, fingers pausing.

 

“It helps him sleep.” He tells Claire haltingly. “I don’t want him to have nightmares.” Claire’s face softens.

 

“He’ll be okay.” She promises. “He should wake up soon, and he’ll be okay. No permanent damage. He was lucky. “ Foggy swallows.

 

“I don’t know if ‘lucky’ is the word I’d use.” He mutters, hoarse.

 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get the sight of Matt on their floor, bleeding out and ruining the carpet they’ve had since they first moved in, out of his head. Ever. Matt loves that carpet, says he’s never found one as soft—he lies down on it sometimes when he’s thinking or listening to Foggy play. And now it’s covered in blood.

 

“Right.” Claire agrees soothingly. “You should take a short break though, just to recover.” When Foggy hesitates, she adds softly, “Matt would want you to.”

 

 _Because Matt knows all about moderation,_ Foggy thinks bitterly. _Matt knows all about taking care of yourself._

 

Matt _does_ know all about taking care of Foggy. Foggy puts the violin down. Claire smiles, relieved.

 

“You know, I used to play the piano.” She tells him casually. Foggy looks at her, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “If you ever need someone to play some songs with, you can come to me.” _If you ever need someone to talk to,_ she doesn’t say. Foggy sighs shakily.

 

“Thanks, Claire.” He sighs. “You know, of all the dumpsters in all the towns in all the world, I’m glad Matt fell in yours. There aren’t many people who can put up with his insanity.” Claire’s smile brightens, grateful.

 

She stays as long as she can. Foggy thinks part of the reason she does is because she wants to make sure he doesn’t start playing again too soon. Eventually she admits she needs to leave for work, so Foggy shows her out with another heartfelt thank-you and a promise to call her later for an update.

 

As soon as the door’s closed, Foggy’s raising the violin again.

 

Like it’s been scripted or scored in a symphony, Matt’s eyes flicker open a moment after the last note fades away.

 

“Perfect.” He praises, voiced cracked and dry. “Beautiful.”

 

“Thank you.” Foggy says dimly, placing the violin back in its case and going to get Matt a bottle of water. “Claire said you might be out for a little longer. How do you feel?”

 

“Like I was just sliced up by a ninja.” Matt admits hoarsely, taking the offered bottle with a murmured thanks. “What did Claire say?” Foggy shrugs with affected nonchalance, sitting down next to Matt on the bed.

 

“Bad.” He says honestly. “But not as bad as it could be. She told me you’d be okay. Told me about a hundred times, actually—I couldn’t stop asking.” Matt swallows.

 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, reaching one hand up carefully. Foggy sighs and catches it, weaving their fingers together.

 

“You ruined our rug.” Foggy tells him, and Matt bites his lip.

 

“I’m so _sorry.”_ He says again, looking sick at the thought. He really does love that rug. They’d had sex on that rug, one of the first places in the apartment they’d christened. They’d slept on that rug when they were too lazy to make it to the bedroom. It’s a good rug.

 

“It’ll wash out.” Foggy assures, taking pity on him. “I Googled it. Just try not to do it again.” Matt nods quickly.

 

“I won’t.” He tells Foggy earnestly. “I promise—“ Foggy puts a finger to Matt’s lips.

 

“Don’t promise, just try.” He orders gently. No promises Matt can’t keep. Foggy will roll up the rug next time, put down towels instead and get Matt cleaned up as soon as possible. Matt nods again, subdued.

 

“I will.” He says obediently. “What time is it?” Foggy doesn’t even bother glancing out the window to check the sky.

 

“Time for you to go to sleep again.” He informs Matt firmly. “Claire said you needed rest. You can have a snack if you want, but only soft food.”

 

“Scrambled eggs?” Matt wonders timidly, and Foggy sighs.

 

“There are other foods in the world, you know.” He tells Matt wryly. “Even if you can’t cook them.” Matt shrugs sheepishly, wincing a moment later and going still. Foggy gives a weak laugh. “You can’t even sit up. I’m going to have to feed you like a fluffy, oh-so-noble baby birdie.” He muses, remembering their conversation from years ago.

 

“Scrambled eggs, not worms.” Matt commands, looking worried. Foggy rolls his eyes.

 

“I’m not going to go hunt worms just to punish you.” He huffs. “There are so many easier ways to make you suffer.” Matt swallows. Foggy smirks, pettily satisfied, and goes to make the eggs.

 

Embarrassingly, Matt is actually better at it. It’s one of the only things he can make, but he can make it _well._ Foggy’s eggs are a little dry and lumpy, but Matt eats them without complaint. When Foggy’s finally gotten him settled back in bed after checking his bandages and shooting off a text to Claire with an update, he goes to get into his pajamas. Matt’s hand on his arm stops him.

 

“Where was that song from?” Matt asks softly. “The one you were playing when I woke up?” Foggy shrugs, laughing a little sheepishly.

 

“I don’t even _know._ ” He admits. “I heard it somewhere, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. Why? Did you like it?”

 

“It was very sad.” Matt murmurs, eyes downcast and thoughtful. Foggy shakes his head, reaching over to touch Matt’s cheek.

 

“No, it wasn’t. You only heard the sad parts.” He tells Matt with a melancholy smile. “Most of it was very happy.”

 

“Really?” Matt looks doubtful, but Foggy nods, pressing a brief kiss to his forehead before pulling away.

 

“Very happy.”

 

* * *

 

 

“We win!” Foggy cheers, catching Matt in a tight hug. “You are officially the baddest badass in Hell’s Kitchen.” Matt hugs him back, smiling exasperatedly.

 

“It’s not over.” He reminds Foggy like a total downer. “Fisk has friends.”

 

“Right, but now they know you’re the baddest badass in Hell’s Kitchen.” Foggy points out patiently. “They’ll be running away with their tales between their legs.” Matt looks amused but unconvinced.

 

“No song for the occasion?” He teases, and Foggy grins.

 

“Well, since you asked…” Matt waits warily as Foggy grabs the violin.

 

Foggy plays ‘Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf’ for about ten seconds before Matt’s laughing and begging him to stop.

 

“That is in very poor taste.” Matt informs him chidingly. Foggy nods solemnly, picking another song.

 

‘Ding Dong the Witch is Dead’ gets a similar reaction.

 

“He’s not dead, you know.” Matt points out between laughs, and Foggy shrugs.

 

“He’s dead to the criminal world. His reputation’s in tatters. He’s going to be wearing orange for the rest of his life.”

 

Honestly, they both know that Fisk’s going to get out. He’s got connections and money and an ax to grind. Still, it’s nice to pretend for a while. And besides, if Matt can beat him once, he can do it again. And again. As many times as it takes to keep Hell’s Kitchen safe.

 

“How about something a little less gloating?” Matt urges. Foggy rolls his eyes.

 

“No such thing as a sore winner.” He mutters, but shrugs. “Okay, suggestions? I can do Devil’s Trill again? It’s basically your theme song.” Matt shakes his head, smiling.

 

“How about the song you played before?” He suggests easily. Foggy shoots him an exasperated look.

 

“I’ve played a million songs before, Matt.” He reminds him. “Can you be a little more specific.”

 

“I don’t know the name.” Matt admits reluctantly, and Foggy groans.

 

“Fantastic. That’s helpful.” He complains. “Can you at least hum a few bars?” Matt gives a fleeting, thoughtful frown.

 

“I don’t think so.” He confesses. “I couldn’t do it justice.” Foggy grins.

 

“And you’re a world-class hummer.” He teases. “You have anything to help me along, or should I just start playing random songs until it pops up?” Matt shakes his head.

 

“It was the song that you were playing when I woke up.” He offers quietly. “I liked it.”

 

Foggy, who was already raising his bow to start another silly song, freezes.

 

“Oh.” He considers Matt for a long moment. “You said it was too sad.”

 

“And you told me it was happy.” Matt returns quickly. “I want to hear the happy parts.” He smiles. “We won, remember? This is a celebration. We need happy music.”

 

“We could celebrate with sex instead.” Foggy counters hastily, taking a note out of Matt’s book. “Sex is good too.” Matt’s smile is bemused.

 

“Yes, obviously, but I’d like to hear the song first.” He tells Foggy. “I loved the parts I heard. I want to hear the rest.”

 

“I’m not sure I remember it all.” Foggy hedges, and Matt touches where his hand holds the bow gently.

 

“Just as much as you remember then.” He urges. Foggy hesitates. “Please?”

 

Foggy takes a deep breath and plays. Just as much as he remembers, which is every note.

 

“There, happy?” He sighs afterwards, self-conscious. Matt nods, eyes wide.

 

“It’s amazing.” He praises. “Why haven’t you ever played it before?” Foggy shrugs, looking away.

 

“I could never play it well enough.” He confesses in a mumble. “I only show you the ones that I know are perfect.” Matt looks bewildered.

 

“It _was_ perfect.” He argues vehemently. “I love all of your songs, but that was _perfect._ I’ve never heard anything like it.” Foggy smiles, glad Matt can’t see that it’s a little shy.

 

“Really? You liked it?” He wonders uncertainly, and Matt nods immediately.

 

“It was flawless.” He tells Foggy earnestly. “I don’t know how, but it just hit every note I love, every single one. It felt like magic.” Foggy’s smile widens. He actually wants to do a little victory dance, but he pushes down the urge. He really, really can’t dance. It would ruin the moment.

 

“Oh, that’s good.” Foggy sighs in relief.

 

“Perfect.” Matt corrects him. “That’s _perfect.”_ He pauses. “Are you sure you don’t know the name? I wonder if we could find it somewhere. The library, maybe. Or we could ask an expert.”

 

“Matt.” Foggy starts quietly.

 

“It can’t be famous, or I’d have heard it. I’ve never heard anything like it anywhere.” Matt muses.

 

“Matt.” Foggy says again, a little more firmly.

 

“I can’t tell if it’s classical or not. It sounds like there are elements of a dozen different eras, all woven together. Fantastic.” He murmurs. “Are you sure you don’t know the name?” He urges Foggy, and Foggy waits for a moment to make sure Matt’s not going to go off into another burst of thought before he speaks.

 

 _“Matt.”_ He repeats, putting emphasis on the name, and Matt nods.

 

“Foggy.” He returns teasingly. “Do you remember _any_ words from the title?” Foggy takes a calming breath.

 

“Matt.” Matt looks a little frustrated at this answer, so Foggy clarifies. “The name of the song is _Matt._ ” Matt freezes, and Foggy hurries on. “Not the most creative name, I know. I can try to think of something a little cooler, a bit more edgy—“

 

“You wrote that song?” Matt asks lowly, and Foggy swallows, shrugging helplessly.

 

“I had some time on my hands while you were out saving the world.” He explains weakly. Matt is silent for along second.

 

“You _wrote_ that song?” He checks again. Foggy makes a small sound of embarrassed agreement. “And you named it after me?” Foggy nods.

 

“I said you were my muse.” He admits sheepishly. “I thought this was a little more romantic than a nursery rhyme.” Matt’s face is blank.

 

“So the song was about me?” He wonders, and Foggy makes another noise of agreement. “But it doesn’t sound like me at all.” Foggy shakes his head.

 

“It does.” He tells Matt simply. “It’s what you sound like to _me_.”

 

Foggy thinks he was too sappy, but Matt doesn’t call him out on it. Besides, it’s not like Foggy can play it cool. He just played Matt a _love song_ that he wrote. It’s the violin equivalent of a _mix tape._

 

“How long did it take you to write this?” Matt asks him gently. Foggy clears his throat.

 

“Not too long.” He says evasively. When Matt just waits expectantly, he sighs. “Seven years.” He mumbles, hoping that Matt won’t hear.

 

Matt hears.

 

“Seven years.” He repeats faintly. “We weren’t…we weren’t even together seven years ago.” Foggy ducks his head, embarrassed.

 

“Yeah, I know.” He agrees. “I still would have written it even if we were never together.” He laughs a little damply. “I’ve always been a little bit crazy about you.”

 

“I’ve heard that all great composers are a little bit crazy.” Matt offers kindly. He hesitates. “Do I really sound like that to you?”

 

“Yes.” Foggy doesn’t bother evading the question again. There’s not much point, and he _wants_ to tell Matt. He’s been wanting to tell Matt for seven years. “Happy, sad, light, dark, playful, serious, bittersweet—there’s a reason it took me so long to finish.” Foggy informs him wryly.

 

“It’s beautiful.” Matt says slowly. It’s pretty obvious that he doesn’t think it sounds like him, but he _does_ think it’s beautiful. “Thank you.”

 

“So, it’s a good song for a celebration?” Foggy urges. Matt watches him for another moment, and then smiles.

 

“Very good choice. I love it.” He assures him. “Play it again?”

 

“You sure?” Foggy asks, doubtful. Matt nods, pushing gently on the violin to raise it up into position. “Okay.”

 

Foggy plays. He gets halfway through before Matt moves.

“You know, you’re making it kind of hard to serenade you.” Foggy tells Matt wryly, lowering his violin a little when Matt’s arms wrap around his stomach.

 

“No, no, keep going.” Matt urges him. Foggy sighs.

 

“I’ll end up smacking you in the face with the bow.” He warns. Matt laughs, a low sound that ghosts warm across Foggy’s skin.

 

“No you won’t.” He argues indulgently. Foggy huffs.

 

“I will if I _aim_.” He informs Matt sweetly. Matt tightens his arms briefly.

 

“Please keep playing?” He begs oh-so-pitifully. Foggy doesn’t buy it for a second, but he plays the next note warily.

 

A minute later, Matt’s hands drop a little lower and back, onto his hips. Foggy grits his teeth and keeps going. A moment or two after, Matt starts kissing his neck. Foggy narrows his eyes but keeps going, slightly faster.

 

“I love you.” Matt murmurs in his ear. “So much.”

 

Right. Foggy speeds through the rest with the practiced speed of someone who knows every note of a song and loves them all. Then he turns around to glare at Matt, whose eyes are wide.

 

“That was amazing.” He tells Foggy, awed. “How did you go so fast?”

 

“That was the legendary allegro assai of the sexually frustrated.” Foggy snaps. “I’m adding a coda about how much of a tease you are. It _will_ be brutal.”

 

Matt grins, completely unrepentant.

 

“I like the sound of that.” He admits. “You should add a coda about how much I love you, too. No, ten. Actually, you should write another piece about it entirely.”

 

“Seriously?” Foggy asks incredulously. “It took me seven years to write this one!” Matt nods, running gentle fingers down the length of the violin before taking the bow from Foggy’s other hand.

 

“I wouldn’t mind being your muse for another seven years.” He offers with a surprisingly tentative smile, so very different from his earlier smirk. “More. It would be a very long song. I can’t really imagine an ending.”

 

Foggy lets him pull the violin away too, putting it carefully in the case and closing the lid. Foggy still can’t believe that Matt worries about breaking his violin. He treats it so delicately, stroking it for a job well done and making sure it’s always in tune. He treats it like a friend. Matt loves Foggy’s violin.

 

He loves _their_ violin.

 

“A very long duet, then.” Foggy decides, smiling. “I can do that.” He gives Matt a quick kiss to seal the deal. Matt grins into the kiss, pulling Foggy back towards the bedroom.

 

“So, still want to make some sweet music together, maestro?” He tempts, and Foggy laughs.

 

“Always, Mr. Muse.”

**Author's Note:**

> I play piano (badly), so I really have no business writing about violins. But pianos are expensive and huge, so they couldn't fit one in their dorm room or afford one for their apartment. Plus, Tartini's Violin Sonata in G Minor. Devil's Trill, woo-hoo! So violin it is.
> 
> They're totally going to start a band. Matt and Foggy can play violin, Claire can play piano, and I bet anything that Karen can either sing or play the flute. They will jam so hard.


End file.
